He sighed, dragging a hand over his face. Then took a deep breath. He hadn’t been willing to talk about this—Marika’s death—with anyone. Not even his boy, Carlos.
He took a deep breath, and pushed out, “It’s been hell, baby.”
She gave him a look filled with compassion. She couldn’t identify with losing a life partner, but she knew the pain of losing someone you loved. She’d felt that crushing pain right after her mother had died. But that was totally different. Her mother hadn’t been murdered. Her death hadn’t been tragic.
Marika’s was.
Marcel felt his chest tighten. “Some days are better than most now,” he continued. “But overall, I’m making it.”
Nairobia nodded. “It gets better, no?”
He stared at her, his eyes glistening, then shrugged one shoulder. “Does it?”
Nairobia reached over and grabbed his hand. She shook her head. “No. Not for a long while does the pain start to not feel so numbing.”
He swallowed. “I don’t think it ever leaves you,” he said solemnly. “I’ll probably end up carrying mine to my grave.”
She cringed. “No, MarSell, my darling. You can’t let it.”
He cast his eyes downward, then turned his head, and stared off somewhere far. “I don’t know how to.” His voice came out low and hoarse. “It’s all I have left.”
She reached over and placed her finger under his chin, and turned his head to look at her. “No, my love. Look at me.” Reluctantly, his eyes met hers. “You have so much more.”
Nairobia stared into his gaze, and saw something in him she hadn’t seen before. Vulnerability. Sadness. He was still haunted by that night. The night Marika was murdered over the airwaves, the entire nightmare unfolding over the radio before hundreds of thousands of listeners. Never in a million years would Marcel have thought one sexual encounter would turn deadly.
But it had. Thanks to that Ramona bitch. She had fucked his whole world up, all because she couldn’t have him to herself. He knew without a doubt he had good dick. That he was a phenomenal lover. And before marrying Marika he’d had his share of crazies stalking him for the dick. Wanting him to wife them up. But he’d always found a way to shake them off. But Ramona had been relentless. And the craziest of them all.
“I want you to tell the whole world out there listening about our night together… Tell them how your wife fucked me in my ass while I rode your dick. Tell them how this bitch ate my pussy while I sucked all over your long, black…tell your listeners how you and this bitch took turns fucking me and how much I loved it… No man has ever made me come the way you did, MarSell. Your dick is so big…And you ate my pussy better than any man I’ve ever been with…I have never had tongue make my whole body shake…”
And then…somewhere in between the pleading and begging…it was over.
A shot was fired.
Fear slashed through Marcel’s heart as he leapt from his seat, cupping his hands tightly over his headphones.
The gun went off twice more. Then there was a deadly, crippling silence over the airwaves.
Marika was dead.
He still hadn’t fully forgiven himself for it. He still blamed himself for her death. Yet, he wanted desperately to get back to living, to move on with his life. But it wasn’t easy.
Nairobia saw Marcel’s eyes brimming with tears. Tears he fought to keep at bay, and they pulled at her heartstrings. He hadn’t talked about that night, or about the loneliness he’d felt thereafter, with anyone.
“Marcel, my darling,” she said, her heart filled with compassion and warmth. “You have to forgive yourself. No matter what you think you did, or didn’t do, you have to let go of it. Holding on to guilt will only eat away at you.”
“It already has,” he said, inhaling a sharp breath. His tears fell. Fuck. He hadn’t wanted her to see him getting emotional. Shit. He squeezed his lids shut, pinching inside the corners of his eyes.
Seeing him pained hurt her. She wanted to be there for him. But wasn’t sure if she knew how to be. She wasn’t the emotional kind of woman. She couldn’t be being in the adult film industry for as long as she had. She had to pretend to be detached. And over the years, she’d become an empty vessel filled with hard cock.
Nairobia leaned over in her seat and wrapped her arms around his neck. She hadn’t expected anything more than him hugging her back, but, to her surprise, he burrowed his face in her neck and wept. She hugged him tightly.
At that moment, something came over her. She wanted to ease his pain.
So she did what any respectable, caring woman in her position would do. She slowly slid to the car floor—inching between his hard thighs, her hands gliding up over hard muscle—and nuzzled her way upward until her jaw rubbed up and down over his crotch, until she felt him grow beneath her.